


I'm Your National Anthem

by TeaAndATale



Series: Like July Forever [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, emotional Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:24:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaAndATale/pseuds/TeaAndATale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve doesn’t want to celebrate his birthday, or the Fourth of July this year. With the help of some Asgardian mead, Steve sneaks away to drink alone.  Amidst the fireworks, inebriated and maudlin, he conjures up what he thinks is a drunken hallucination of Peggy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Your National Anthem

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know how I feel about this, but it asked to be written.  
>  Not quite a song fic, but if you're familiar with the lyrics, you'll see their influence. I don't have many Fourth of July traditions, but I do listen to this song while watching fireworks.  
>  If you're so inclined, I encourage listening to the music video version while reading.  
>  Vaguely set post the Avengers.
> 
> Happy 4th of July, or if you don’t celebrate that, hope you enjoy Captain America's birthday! 

 

_Red, white, blue is in the sky_  
_Summer's in the air and_  
_Baby, heaven's in your eyes_  
_I'm your National Anthem_  
_\- Lana Del Rey_

 

Brooklyn in July was a sweltering mess. Crowded noisy streets. The incessant hum of parties and gatherings. Teens breaking open fire hydrants to keep cool under the spray. Everyone seemed to be buzzed on alcohol, on massive amounts of grilled burgers and dogs, on love. On life. Firecrackers, poppers and cheap fireworks were shot off for days leading up to the big holiday. The celebrations definitely felt more vivid than they had when he was growing up. He’s still not used to all the excess. Garish red and blue outfits, that reminded him too clearly of his USO tour, were visible on nearly everyone. Uncle Sam hats aplenty, and even frequent Captain America shirts. He wonders how many of the wearers know it's also his birthday. Probably a few.

Steve feels no joy in either celebration. He was meant to be at Tony Stark's Fourth of July blowout. He made a point of showing his face early, for exactly ten minutes, before immediately hopping back on his motorcycle towards home—or as much as his Brooklyn apartment filled that position.

His block was quieter now that the sun had set, most people at the nearest firework display. And there was no one on the rooftop, accessible only by a tiny, thin, rickety service ladder. He was alone. No Peggy. No Bucky. Anyway, he preferred the rooftop to Tony's crowded, claustrophobic party. He didn't want cheer, or to hear people he didn't know tell him Happy Birthday.

If he had asked, Steve knew Sam would have spent the evening with him. Even Natasha would join them, with some dry comment about not understanding the big fuss about fireworks. He knows they mean well, but he doesn’t want to ruin their night. He knows there’s a girl Sam really wanted to spend some time with and Natasha had always managed to make her own fun. He’d rather they enjoy the holiday for themselves. Besides, Steve doesn’t want anyone to stop him from stewing in his maudlin thoughts. It’s his birthday. He can observe it however he wants.

Another year gone by, another year older. Another year removed from 1945.

His eyes tracked all the intermittent fireworks.

They're too loud, too bright, and sounded too much like gunfire. And the lingering smell, the stench of burning… It all reminded him too much of war. Too much of his friends. Dugan. Jones. Dernier with his explosions punctuated with French curse words. Bucky right by his side. And Peggy, perfect Peggy, red-lipped and statuesque as she bounded between enemies.

But he wasn't punishing himself. He couldn't help that the serum made him more sensitive to most stimuli. That's what he was telling himself anyway. This was not his penance. His life in the twenty-first century was more than a burden. He had found new friends, a new purpose. He had Sam, Natasha, the Avengers.

But it wasn't the same. His life felt half-full. He felt an emptiness. It was just not the same.

And so when Thor looked at him knowingly earlier, like he could read his mortal morose thoughts, he took the proffered flask eagerly.

It's been so long since Steve had felt the effects of a stiff drink. A life time. One that he missed out on. He remembers the last time he was drunk. He was with Bucky, of course, and they were celebrating. Bucky had found a new girl, and he had won his most recent boxing match. And Steve, he managed to find a new job contributing drawings for an ad agency. And although the pay was no better than his last job, a pittance, it was not nothing. It was enough to keep him going.

They splurged on a whole bottle of whiskey, drinking for hours. Steve could still remember the way the cool amber liquid burned going down his throat. He remembers his head spinning after one drink. But they were celebrating Bucky had kept reminding him. So they continued to drink. And in the haze he remembers Bucky telling him exactly what he loved about his new girl, of all the things they got up to. Steve felt it was inappropriate to hear that kind of private information, but he couldn't stop listening.

He later woke up with his head against the toilet, his mouth dry, his shirt damp. Bucky was passed out just outside the bathroom.

 

 

More than a few sips of mead later, Steve felt something akin to a warming tingle. It wasn't exactly the same sort of drunken lilt he remembered from his skinny days, but it was something. And he wants something. More than something.

Steve wants relief. Dullness rather than constant sharpness. And the once unfamiliar drink calls to him. The sweet and fragrant liquor warms his throat and his chest. He doesn't want to celebrate.

_Cheers. Here's to another year you were meant to be in your nineties._ Maybe a grandfather. Definitely having lived a life. Having made mistakes but at least he would have been able to make them. And if he was lucky, he’d have had someone to hold him close when things got tough.

He wants Peggy.

And the moment he thinks it—a very specific image of Peggy Carter floating through his mind, one he daydreamed about endlessly on the Western Front—she appears.

He's sure he's had too much, gotten cocky about his tolerance. His world is spinning and Peggy Carter, aged no more than twenty four was not more than ten feet from him.

This is a trick. A cruel Asgardian trick. She's even wearing a red dress. And in that moment he curses Thor.

He's drunk, and his brain has remembered the last time he tried to get drunk. How Peggy had found him then too. He had been miserable that night too. The second time he had thought he lost Bucky. Peggy sat with him amidst the air raid sirens. She held his hand.

The Peggy his head conjured up looks just about the same as the real Peggy had when he had known her in youth. Her hair was curled, she was wearing red lipstick. But something was off. He knows enough to know that she looks modern. The clothes she’s wearing are made from fabrics that didn’t exist seventy years ago. Her heels are much higher than any of the heels he’d ever seen her wear. He likes them. He’s intrigued, in a way he hadn’t been when he saw women wear the same kinds of shoes at Tony’s parties.

"You look so real," he murmurs to himself, because she's not real. There are tears in his eyes. "I wish you were real. I wish. I wish…"

"Darling, please don't cry." She sounds exactly the same. Exactly like the real Peggy. The one that had comforted him over the death of his best friend.

He wants to shut his eyes but the only thing more devastating than seeing Peggy is an absence of Peggy. Even if this is not a corporeal Peggy. He's sure the second he blinks, she'll fall away into the ether.

"Peggy?"

"Yes Steve." She’s nodding, eyeing him with gentle compassion.

He's never not been able to trust his senses. He remembers how sharp the world became after the serum. Colors bolder, more distinct. Reds popping, commanding his attention. He had keen instincts on sight and sounds. Even his gut feelings felt more pronounced. And right now there was a fogginess. Not just an alcohol induced one, but more like a gauzy veil. A dreamlike filter. And it lit Peggy up like a firework.

He wonders if that’s a side effect of imbibing that which was meant for a god. He was human. And currently he was acutely aware of that. The sight of Peggy in that red dress... He was flooded with desire, the deepest of longings, wanton and needy. He wants to give in. He wants to chase this dream Peggy, down any rabbit holes she may lead him down.

"Darling," she murmurs.

She feels her pull, magnetic and powerful.

"Darling I'm here."

"Peggy?" he questions desperately. "But—"

Steve feels her hand touch his. He lifts their joined hands to his eyes, looking carefully, trying to figure out which of his senses he can trust.

It felt so real, this mirage.

He remembers the feel of their kiss, the exact texture of her lips atop his, the way his mouth parted of its own accord. Like they knew exactly what to do in the presence of his true love. He wants to test his memory.

"Is that your motorcycle down there?"

He nods mutely. He’s trying to shake his head into clarity.

"Let's go for a drive."

He doesn't move.

"Will you come with me?"

"Yes."

She climbs down first, as nimble as ever, and she keeps up a steady stream of coaxing words. He doesn’t need them to follow her. Because he would follow Peggy anywhere. Anywhere he could go. But he likes the sound of her voice, a rapturous melody.

He's playing with his keys as they approach his motorcycle, and then he pauses mid step. He’s miscalculated something.

"I think I'm drunk," he whispers, his voice laced with regret, with near heartbreak. Like he just realized this is the end of the interlude.

She smiles at him, a coyness throughout. "I can handle you," she says.

You. Not the motorcycle. Not it.

You.

She snatches the keys from his fingers and easily mounts the bike, revving the engine. She looks so good on a bike. On his bike. And she's still wearing a red dress.

"Darling, hand me that bag," she calls, breaking his stupor.

He hardly noticed the leather backpack she had with her. He does as he's told, watching her slip off her heels and into flats. Then she orders him to put the backpack on. He does, but he doesn't move from the curb.

This mirage sure seems realistic. Would his mind have really come up with a detail like that?

When he looks up from her feet, taking the long scenic route of admiring her bare legs, no stockings he notes, he meets her waiting eyes. She's staring expectantly at him, a look he is all too familiar with.

He climbs on behind her.

“You’ve always had a thing for Harleys,” she says, her head still turned in his direction.

This Peggy remembers his other motorcycle. She had ridden that one too. Only she had been his passenger.

He stares at her red lips.

“I’ve always had a thing for you on that motorcycle,” she says in a sly voice.

He's drunk. He must be.

"Hold on tight," she tells him.

The wind whips around them, Brooklyn blustering by.

His arms are tight around her middle, his palms brushing against her stomach because he can't get over the feel of the smooth fabric of her dress. This too feels real. Or so he assumes. He's never touched a woman quite like this. Never been aware of how her dress felt against his fingertips. Steve knows it's not the same red dress but he can't help but wonder if it would have felt anything like this one. He wonders what the skin below feels like. He gulps at his own thought and stills his hands, moving them to clutch at his own arms instead. Even if this is a dream he knows better. Besides she's driving. He doesn't want to distract her. That doesn't mean, however, that he can't be distracted.

He rests his head against her left shoulder blade, breathing her in.

The road stretches out before them. He's not sure how long they drive, too long and too short all at once. They pull up to a house on a dark street, seemingly empty, and he can see and hear water. The ocean. It twinkles at him in the starlight. He trails after Peggy as she walks confidently through the gate and into a narrow lane leading towards the back of the house.

They stand in the backyard, on lush green grass that gently slopes down towards sand, where tiny waves ebb and flow. He can hear distant fireworks and distant sounds of oohs and aahs. He looks up to see a particularly massive red and blue firework glittering the dark sky. There is something else more worthy of his attention though. More worthy of his verbal awe.

She’s standing there watching him, ignoring the fireworks entirely. Her hair is still tousled. That makes his illusion feel more real. He's sure in his dreams, Peggy would be everlastingly immaculate.

He likes her tousled. He wants to run his hands through her hair. Cup the back of her neck and hold her there while he kisses her.

"Peggy? Where are we? Is this a dream or a nightmare?"

She steps toward him carefully, until her hand touches his arm, and slides up toward his shoulder.

"This is just a house Steve. On the ocean. Good for a getaway and for privacy."

"But you're..." She's touching him. And he can feel it. All the way to his toes. "You look the same."

She smiles sadly. "It's hard to explain."

He wants to know more but he doesn't want to ask. He doesn't want to know how limited his time with her is. Instead he presses his body right into hers. She lifts her hands to his cheeks, leaning in closer and closer.

"Peggy, I love you."

"Steve," she murmurs. "Steve, I've always loved you."

He trembles.

She kisses him, lips sure, her passion possessive. He kisses back just as another firework bursts above them.

 

 

She leads them inside, lips still parted against his while she tugged on his shirt, walking them backwards through the halls. He sees none of the house until they're inside a bedroom with large windows overlooking the water. It's here she pulls away.

She opens the windows, slides open the balcony door. Then she returns to her spot, hand knotting his shirt again as she pulls him towards the bed.

The dark room is filled with bursts of bright lights from outside, brief slices of color tinting Peggy's face. She pushes him down on the bed.

He feels his heart pound, louder and louder, not to be muted by the pops and crackles.

He watches her kick off her shoes.

"Steve," she whispers again.

She's licking her lips and pulling at the hem of her dress.

He inhales sharply, jerks into an upright position, and then his hands cover hers with purpose. He trails the red fabric upward, past her thighs, past her hips. She reaches for it impatiently, lifting the dress above her head, settling it down on the ground unceremoniously.

He gasps.

But he has no more than a moment to stare. She's frantically unbuttoning his shirt, skimming it off his shoulders. It joins her dress and she pushes him down again. Only this time she comes with him.

He has no idea about what to do with his hands, other than that he wants to touch her everywhere. And so he does. And she doesn't slap his hands away. Instead she sighs his name. And his reaction is immediate.

"Peggy," he groans.

She's straddling him and his body feels like it’s on fire.

"Darling?" she murmurs in question, asking for permission, asking for approval.

"Yes, yes, yes," he chants.

She guides him through every motion. She's warm, hot against him. Every touch intense, causing his hair to stand on end. He is sure he is drunk. Only this time he knows it’s on her, on the way she feels wrapped around him. On the sound of his name escaping her mouth. On their combined murmurs of satisfaction.

He watches her move above him.

"Happy Birthday Steve," she croons. "Happy Birthday, my darling."

 

 

He’s still heaving, feeling boneless and spent. Hours later, the outside world has quieted. And yet Peggy's still there, still against him, chest to chest. She is glorious. And when he stares into her eyes he sees heaven.

"Peggy I don't want to wake up."

"You are awake," she promises. She presses her hand to his heart, and climbs back over him. “You’re real. I’m real. This is real.”

She starts to move against him again, and he lets out a surprised whimper. She grins at him, bringing his hands up to touch her, for her curves to spill over his palms. And he swears she starts to sing the National Anthem. For her own amusement. To further drive him crazy. So that he knows exactly what they are celebrating. That it’s worth celebrating.

She is worth celebrating.

"Don't leave me. Please don't leave me," he pleads.

She slips her tongue into his mouth, and he lets himself be swept away in pleasure.

 

He wakes to sunlight, cawing seagulls and crashing waves. Without even opening his eyes he knows he’s not at home in Brooklyn. He’s naked in someone else’s bed, white sheets covering his lower half. He panics and frantically searches the room. And there, sprawled out just inches away, legs tangled with his, brown curls spilling over the pillow, is Peggy.


End file.
